looks of a natural born liar, a rogue who breezed through life on his charm, his wits, his dashing appearance. Pink and white roses circled around the red, beckoning us to rise, to celebrate the morning and savor its beauty. We swayed, red petals rising, floating, arms reaching for the sunlight.
I was lonely. I had never known such loneliness. Though I was friendly with the other dancers, I was close to none of them. I hadnât the means to associate with them outside the theater, and my pride prevented me from accepting the invitations they handed out so casually. I had no friends at all except Millie, and she kept such odd hours that I rarely saw her. It would be nice to go out to a restaurant with a man, to attend the theater with him on one of the nights when we werenât dancing. But not a man like Anthony Duke, not a rake who hung around outside theaters pursuing women who wanted nothing to do with him.
âJesus!â Sarah hissed. âGet up, Mary Ellen!â
I looked at her, startled. The other red roses had already unfolded and were standing on tall stems, swaying as the white and pink wove in and out. Sarah floated past. Rising a good thirty seconds after the others, I whirled about, pretending it was part of the choreography, joining in step, but I was unnerved. What on earth was the matter with me? I had never done anything like that before. I was always part of the music, part of the magic, my own identity thoroughly submerged. I moved across the stage on point, bending, swaying, whirling.
I made no more errors, but all the while I was conscious of the lights, the sea of faces, the hundreds of eyes watching, of one pair in particular. The dance was supposed to be a liquid flow of expression, but tonight I was acutely aware of each step, each movement. I felt stiff and mechanical, a separate entity going through my paces with little feeling.
Red and pink roses danced offstage while the white remained to do their special interlude. I moved around a coil of rope and stood beside a stack of flats that leaned against the wall to watch. Mattie, the wardrobe woman, rushed over to hand each of us a towel, and we carefully patted away perspiration. Reginaâs topknot had begun to spill down again. She giggled as an irritated Theresa shoved soft blonde waves back in place and jabbed hairpins into them. I was out of breath, and every muscle in my body felt sore. For the first time I was afraid, afraid I wouldnât remember the steps when the red roses did their specialty, afraid I would blunder.
Applause filled the auditorium as the dancers in white tulle sailed offstage as though carried on air. The pink whirled on, skirts making full circles as the dancers spun on point. Sarah seized a towel from Mattie and moved over to join me, patting her face and shoulders.
âWhatâs the matter with you tonight?â
âI ⦠I donât know.â
âItâs that man, isnât it? Heâs upset you.â
I shook my head. âThat isnât it, Sarah. Itâs ⦠itâs a lot of things. I just ⦠canât seem to concentrate.â
I had exactly ten pounds to my name. I had been extremely frugal, but after a year the money had simply vanished. I hadnât paid Mrs. Fernwood for three weeks, and I knew she wouldnât hesitate to turn me out of my room if I didnât pay up soon. For the past month I had been skipping breakfast and dinner, eating only lunch, trying to economize even more. I needed new ballet slippers. I needed a new cloak before winter. I would have to pay Madame again at the end of the month, and I simply didnât have the money.
Loneliness wasnât the worst of it. Doubts had begun to besiege me about my dancing. Madame Olga took only those students who showed great promise. I had been very promising, but after a year I was no better than I had been when I began her classes. Deep down I knew that. I worked harder than any of the
I was lonely. I had never known such loneliness. Though I was friendly with the other dancers, I was close to none of them. I hadnât the means to associate with them outside the theater, and my pride prevented me from accepting the invitations they handed out so casually. I had no friends at all except Millie, and she kept such odd hours that I rarely saw her. It would be nice to go out to a restaurant with a man, to attend the theater with him on one of the nights when we werenât dancing. But not a man like Anthony Duke, not a rake who hung around outside theaters pursuing women who wanted nothing to do with him.
âJesus!â Sarah hissed. âGet up, Mary Ellen!â
I looked at her, startled. The other red roses had already unfolded and were standing on tall stems, swaying as the white and pink wove in and out. Sarah floated past. Rising a good thirty seconds after the others, I whirled about, pretending it was part of the choreography, joining in step, but I was unnerved. What on earth was the matter with me? I had never done anything like that before. I was always part of the music, part of the magic, my own identity thoroughly submerged. I moved across the stage on point, bending, swaying, whirling.
I made no more errors, but all the while I was conscious of the lights, the sea of faces, the hundreds of eyes watching, of one pair in particular. The dance was supposed to be a liquid flow of expression, but tonight I was acutely aware of each step, each movement. I felt stiff and mechanical, a separate entity going through my paces with little feeling.
Red and pink roses danced offstage while the white remained to do their special interlude. I moved around a coil of rope and stood beside a stack of flats that leaned against the wall to watch. Mattie, the wardrobe woman, rushed over to hand each of us a towel, and we carefully patted away perspiration. Reginaâs topknot had begun to spill down again. She giggled as an irritated Theresa shoved soft blonde waves back in place and jabbed hairpins into them. I was out of breath, and every muscle in my body felt sore. For the first time I was afraid, afraid I wouldnât remember the steps when the red roses did their specialty, afraid I would blunder.
Applause filled the auditorium as the dancers in white tulle sailed offstage as though carried on air. The pink whirled on, skirts making full circles as the dancers spun on point. Sarah seized a towel from Mattie and moved over to join me, patting her face and shoulders.
âWhatâs the matter with you tonight?â
âI ⦠I donât know.â
âItâs that man, isnât it? Heâs upset you.â
I shook my head. âThat isnât it, Sarah. Itâs ⦠itâs a lot of things. I just ⦠canât seem to concentrate.â
I had exactly ten pounds to my name. I had been extremely frugal, but after a year the money had simply vanished. I hadnât paid Mrs. Fernwood for three weeks, and I knew she wouldnât hesitate to turn me out of my room if I didnât pay up soon. For the past month I had been skipping breakfast and dinner, eating only lunch, trying to economize even more. I needed new ballet slippers. I needed a new cloak before winter. I would have to pay Madame again at the end of the month, and I simply didnât have the money.
Loneliness wasnât the worst of it. Doubts had begun to besiege me about my dancing. Madame Olga took only those students who showed great promise. I had been very promising, but after a year I was no better than I had been when I began her classes. Deep down I knew that. I worked harder than any of the
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